


we're screaming at the moon together

by aceofdiamonds



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 07:19:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7091287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceofdiamonds/pseuds/aceofdiamonds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>one by one the starks return to winterfell </p><p>Rickon is the first to make it, a wildling woman in tow and Shaggydog circling him protectively as they make their way through the gates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we're screaming at the moon together

**Author's Note:**

> my fairytale ending if the starks were allowed to be happy for more than five seconds. possibly sansa/jon in the future. when is it not. also, as always, i’ve shifted the plot and avoided certain parts of canon to fit how i want so take everything with a pinch of salt. title is from diamond days by kids in glass houses.

 

 

Sansa used to dream of battles over her honour, over her heart, over everything she stands for, but when it happens it’s ugly and disgustingly necessary, people Sansa has come to be friendly to dropping before her eyes. 

Is she allowed to say that it's worth it in the end? When Ramsay falls and takes half his men and half of Jon and Sansa’s with him, relief floods her, so much so she can barely stand. After so long, Winterfell is back under the Starks. Two of them is enough for now. After the reclaiming of their home Sansa has faith that the rest will come. 

“Thank you, Jon,” she says, the next day when the euphoria is fading and the clear-up begins.

He runs his hand over her hair, everything so familiar with him already. He rests his hand on her shoulder and he tells her, “It was the only thing we could do,” which is sometimes used as an excuse but in this context it means it was the thing he wanted to do, the thing he needed to do, and he doesn’t regret it at all. 

“What’s next?” Sansa asks, leading Jon over to the godswood which has become their place of grounding. “What do we do from here?”

Jon shrugs, looks to her for guidance. Now that she looks at him she can see how exhausted he is, bloody from the battle and weary from the friends he lost. She can see that this is her turn to step forward, to make decisions, to carry on with what he has given to her. Her hand rests of his arm, a small sign of reassurance. 

“For now,” she decides, “we wait.” 

Ghost snuffles against her arm and she allows her hand to tangle in the fur at his neck. He blinks his red eyes up at her and she breathes out a sigh of something that could almost be called optimism. She has to relearn that part of her but she’ll get there.

  
  


.

  
  


Finally, after what has felt like years and years of searching, Arya, Bran, and Rickon make their way back to Winterfell. They straggle in in various forms of life, direwolves sniffing around their feet, seeking their felled siblings, leading their owners across the threshold.

  
  


.

  
  


Rickon is the first to make it, a wildling woman in tow and Shaggydog circling him protectively as they make their way through the gates. He is wary at first, doing a circuit of the courtyard, struggling to pull it from his messy memories as servants surviving from the days of his father’s rule stand and stare, but he gets there when he sees Sansa and Jon in the entrance to the castle. 

The wildling, Osha, helps them communicate due to his immersion in Skagos and the whispers of language he picked up there that now dominate his speech. He is nothing like the sweet, boisterous child Sansa remembers but she approaches him for a hug anyway, Jon keeping close beside her.

It's much the same as it was the first time she hugged Jon at Castle Black - an overwhelming reminder of the deep roots of family and the presence of the pack mentality that has been frayed as they were scattered across the Seven Kingdoms. 

“Do you remember me Rickon?” she asks, keeping her arms around him. He feels so small, so alive, that Sansa can barely believe he's here. “I’m Sansa, your sister.”

He pulls his face from her neck to study her, eyes narrowing as he takes in her face, the eyes and the hair so like their lady mother’s. He continues to look wary, mutters something unintelligible, but he doesn't let go, which tells Sansa enough. 

The same thing is played with Jon, this time with a hint more of recognition which Sansa tries not to take personally. He was so young when everyone left Winterfell and he and Bran had to flee for their lives; add to that the trauma he's been through since and it’s understandable that he’s feeling a little out of sorts. 

What they have, though, is time. Time is all they need to reorient themselves with one another. Sansa has had this extra time with Jon, perhaps the gods way of letting them make up for the distance they kept when they were children, and all she can think is how grateful she is that they have that chance with Rickon now, too.

Though Rickon is no longer the small boy she remembers, Jon lifts him easy enough and takes him through the door to the Great Hall, the two of them talking quietly about how they ended up where they are.

Sansa turns to the wildling who brought her baby brother back to her and finds, shockingly after all her games of politics, that she is lost for words, the thanks caught in her throat. 

But Osha seems to get it and smiles slightly. “There’s no need, Lady Stark. It was all I could do.”

Sansa nods, manages something of a smile herself. “You’ll stay with us?” she asks, hurries to add, “if you’d rather return to the wildlings, of course, I understand, but you’re welcome here.” 

Osha deliberates for a brief moment. “I’d like that, Lady Stark. I’ve grown attached to the little lord,” and Sansa feels a flash of something green and ugly at this before she dismisses this in favour of gratitude. “It will be good to see Lord Bran as well.”

“Bran hasn’t been seen yet,” Sansa admits, head bowed, “but with Rickon’s return we’re confident he’ll find his way back.” 

“You Starks are like a pack,” Osha says as Sansa leads her into the castle. “You can tell what the rest of them are doing from thousands of miles away -- aye, now that there are Starks back in Winterfell the little lord will be back soon.” 

This has been Sansa’s reasoning but it’s comforting hearing it from someone else. 

“You must be starving,” she says instead. “I’m sure Jon has taken Rickon down to the kitchens -- come on, I’ll find you something to eat.” 

This is proven to be the right thing to do when Sansa and Jon stand back as Osha and Rickon fall on the food prepared for the meal later on, their first proper food in gods knows how long. 

“What now?” Jon asks Sansa quietly, echoing the conversation they had all those moons ago. 

The obvious thing is to talk to Rickon and Osha, to share information from their various journeys since they parted and to try and build on their knowledge if they want to take action, but for now Sansa steps forward and takes a seat beside Rickon. For now all they need is to be as close to each other as possible; that’s what’s going to enable them to move forward.

  
  


.

 

  
  
There are rumours at first, rumours that swirl around the gates of Winterfell and slide into heads as fact. Sansa's been cheated by such whispers before and so she stops herself from believing, from hoping, just in case everything crashes down again.    
  
They don't tell Rickon because grown as he is now Sansa doesn't want him mixed up anymore than he already is. Sansa doesn't want him getting his hopes up that perhaps their family isn't as broken and beaten as they always thought.    
  
But Jon believes, and that's something, because even before he died, even before he rose again, he was pessimistic and wary, the dark to Sansa's light. But here they've mellowed, balanced, and they're both ready, should it ever happen, for Arya to come home. 

When Arya appears at the gates there is a confusion as to if she is telling the truth. There have been a number of Arya Starks staking their claim to Winterfell and the power that comes with it over the years but none of them have been greeted by their sister hurling herself into their arms and sobbing into their neck, garbled apologies and declarations of love announced by both parties. 

The heroic tales and romantic epics Sansa has stored in her heart have always involved princes and the reunion of lovers from across the country. None of them touch upon the emotion that floods you when you're reunited with a sister you thought was dead and so Sansa has nothing to compare to.

“Can you forgive me, Arya?” Sansa asks when they part, eyes roaming over the other, checking all the differences and picking out the similarities from the last time they were together. “Forgive me for being the most awful sister.” 

“I’d never have a sister other than you, San,” Arya says, like she’s been wanting to say this for a while. “When I heard about Joffrey I thought you were dead, Sansa. I thought they’d killed you.”

The thought sits strangely in Sansa’s stomach -- for all the grieving and worrying she’s done for the rest of her family she never considered their thoughts of her. 

“I didn't know what to think about you, Arya,” is what she says. “There were so many rumours, each of them more wicked and awful than the last.” 

Arya hugs her again, face burrowed in her neck. Sansa finds the space on her back her mother taught her was the place to bring comfort -- she rubs circles through the cloak covering Arya’s back, hoping this is enough. She is the big sister, she is the one who should be taking care of their family, and here is her baby sister, back from treks far across the Seven Kingdoms and so much more Sansa hasn’t heard yet. From now on, Sansa is going to be more vocal about Arya’s safety and her protection, however much she might fight it. 

To have a sister is to have someone with a part of your soul lodged within them; it is to have someone who knows you inside and out and back again. Sisters hate and they love and they tease but that piece of soul is always there, tying them together. 

“Come inside,” Sansa murmurs. “Jon and Rickon will be back soon.” 

At this Arya pulls back and Sansa doesn’t say a word about the redness of her eyes, not when she’s still sniffing. “Everyone’s here? I only heard -- Jon and Rickon? Bran?”

That’s the part Sansa’s still struggling with. “No Bran yet,” she admits, both of them turning their gaze to the white expanse of ground reaching for miles and miles. “But I never expected to see any of you again, Arya. I think that allows a little faith.” 

Arya falls into step beside her and they make their way into the castle. Sansa watches the way Arya’s head swivels as she takes in everything that’s been ruined and everything that’s been restored.

“I never thought I would see this place again,” she murmurs, tipping her head back to see the markings on the wall beside the main hall where she and Sansa once threw stones to see if they could imitate the rain. 

Sansa reaches out. Her hand catches Arya’s sleeve and she tugs gently, pulls her closer. She’s been this way with Jon and Rickon -- at the start she feels if she’s not in constant contact then it can’t be real, then it can be taken away, and so she holds on, and checks. Arya is right there beside her, solid and warm.

“This is home,” she replies, voice quiet. “It was always waiting for us to come back.” 

“You’re never leaving the North again, are you, Sansa?” Arya asks then, turning to face her. 

The thought makes Sansa’s breath catch in her chest, a reaction a world away from when she was first told she would be journeying South with Arya and their father. “No,” she gets out. “No, the North needs me.”

This is what Arya was waiting for. She nods, satisfied. “Good. The North needs me too. And we need it,” she adds, and then she smiles. “Come on. I want to see everyone.” 

Sansa allows Arya to lead the way, the two of them tracing steps they’ve known since birth, and oh, it all feels so worryingly easy. 

  
  


.

  
  


With Bran comes Hodor, comes Meera, comes Summer. With Bran comes a bittersweet wholeness that this is everyone in their family together and yet it is not. With Bran comes a sense of completeness as well as an urge to regenerate the Starks, to rebuild their home to the way it was before, to fully conquer the North in a way the South can not ignore. 

Bran’s arrival sparks something in Rickon that the rest of them have been waiting for. This is the brother he escaped death with; this is the brother he remembers sticking with him for the longest. Arya’s hand comes around Sansa’s waist, she leans her head on her shoulder, and they watch as their little brothers laugh and share and fit back together, sad and dirty memories placed to the side for the mean time as they indulge in the giddiness that comes with getting something you never thought was possible. Jon joins them after a short while, the groove of his forehead loosening as he allows himself to relax for a few minutes. 

Before long the winds pick up and the skies darken and the siblings pile into Bran’s room, settling on the bed as though they were children still. Not wanting to disturb the servants who are finishing off for the night, Sansa and Jon steal down to the kitchens for bread and cheese, cups of milk and honey balanced precariously on trays made out of breadboards. 

“So I have a queen for a sister?” Bran says, smiling at Sansa over the rim of his cup once they’ve settled in. 

“Did you not see that in your visions?” Arya asks, nudging at him with her feet, and prompting the rest of them to laugh. Bran pushes back, his hand catches hers, and, like they all keep doing, they keep holding on.

“I don’t choose what I see,” Bran replies, all wisdom. 

“It’s yours if you want it, Bran,” Sansa says, the offer half-hearted because she’s really beginning to like being the head of the house and the responsibilities that come with it. “You’re the oldest remaining trueborn son.”

“Like that means anything anymore,” Arya says as Bran shakes his head, gently refuses, gently reassures Sansa things have worked out the way they’re supposed to.

The subject is changed to reminiscing and nostalgia, memories curling up around them to dance around the ceiling. The atmosphere shifts from grief to gratefulness to optimism to anger and circles all the way back again and again as the bread disappears and the milk makes them drowsy. 

“There’s a lot that can be done here,” Jon says, pushing out the words they’re all thinking. 

“You mean to finish what Mother and Father and Robb died for?” Arya replies, no barb there, just curiosity and that need to do more that always got her into trouble when they were young. Sansa bites back a snort at that thought -- young _ er _ , she means. They’re all still far too young. 

“We need to cement the North’s hold,” Bran adds. “You’ve heard the rumours -- if dragons are coming we need to make our position clear otherwise it’ll all happen again, just as before.” 

“Now we have Winterfell, the Starks have the ability to build up even stronger than before,” Sansa says, reiterating what she’s been saying for moons and moons now. "Jon," she turns to him. "Jon didn't believe we could take back the castle from Ramsay Bolton but we did -- if we can do that with the smallest number of wildlings and Men of the Watch, what's stopping us from cementing our hold on the North with the weight of the other houses behind us?" 

At this Rickon pipes up for the first time since the conversation turned. His eyes are drooping where he’s propped up between Jon and Bran but his voice is clear when he says, so confident for someone so young, “We’ll win. For Mother and Father and Robb,” and the plans that Sansa and Jon have been working on are rolled into action with those eight words. 

For now, though, they fall asleep one by one, the five of them crowding on Bran’s bed as though they’re their direwolves. Sansa head is cushioned by Jon’s leg, her waist serving as Arya’s pillow, one hand on Bran’s ankle and the other in Rickon’s hand. They fit together, the way they always have. She knows she’s biased but she’s had experience with other houses -- she knows none of them are quite like this.

  
  
  


. 

  
  
  


Are they allowed to say that with everything that’s passed that they are glad to have this? It still feels wrong to feel happiness after losing so much but look, look what they found. 

The Starks have climbed back from the fall and they are going to take the North, they are going to assert their control of their homeland, Sansa as their Queen, and then they’re going to leave the messy politics to the South. Maybe it’s idealistic, to think that everything will fall into place this way and be left at that, but if there’s anything Sansa can take from the last parts of her life is that the Starks can endure so much more than anyone has given them credit for. Now that they’re back under one roof, now that they have so much more knowledge than ever before, knowledge that spans the Seven Kingdoms and beyond, now, well, no one will dismiss  _ winter is coming _ as an empty warning again. 

These are their warning words to those who choose to move against them, to those who choose to stand to the side while the Starks take on the South. Of course, they remember the deaths of Eddard and of Catelyn and of Robb, the Young Wolf, and they remember the consequences of their support against the Lannisters, but this is a story they can believe in -- everyone loves a good resurrection tale and who better to tell it than the broken house of Stark and the bastard son who rose from the dead. 

When the fight is over, because it must end one day, then they will retreat to Winterfell and it is there they will rule, the Queen in the North and her siblings surrounding her. 

  
  



End file.
